A table had been set up in the back, with a large crystal punch bowl. A server stood behind it with white gloves, waiting to provide assistance. As Lysander only had two hands, he would bring two glasses for the women and forego one for himself—which was fine as punch was often too sweet for his tastes.
When he returned with two glasses in his hands, the American professor was speaking animatedly to the women, his eyes on Adele. Lysander felt a frown cross his brow and he wondered again what Adele saw when he looked at the man, receiving his attention. She was listening intently to what the man was saying.
“Ah, Lord Warburton, you brought punch, you darling.” Suddenly, he felt ridiculous standing there with two dainty glasses in his hands—a look which he could well imagine didn’t portray a great degree of masculinity. “This is Professor Smith, he has been telling us of the geology of Australia. Fascinating. Are you a Darwinian?”
“No,” he said. He was, in principle, but for some reason, he felt like being obtuse. Adele turned her surprised gaze to him, before hiding it with a smile. She was playing the part of a wife, who would be fully cognizant of her husband’s beliefs and views.
The women received the glasses and he felt better being relieved of the emasculating burden.
“Are you a geologist, Professor Smith?” he asked.
“I am, sir.”
“He travels the world looking for interesting rock formations. Can you imagine?” Mrs Callisfore said.
Lysander smiled tightly, finding the man extremely annoying, using the wrong title and the way the man’s eyes lingered on his wife—he couldn’t help but notice it. This man, with his gentle puppy-dog eyes—deceptive in their portrayal, was probably thinking lewd thoughts about his wife, while smiling congenially. An adventurer, an explorer, a man set on uncovering secrets and unknown ideas—the kind of man that women celebrated. Lysander, with his regimented life, surrounded by luxury and exacting standards, might be thought by some—when measured against the criteria of setting the imagination aflutter—to pale in comparison.
Lysander hated feeling inadequate. He watched as Adele listened to the American, with his broad and mellow accent, wondering if she found him charming. She had in the past, found Samson Ellingwood charming, enough to abandon her station and run off with him, with all the man’s relative disadvantages, that had offered even less when you considered his quick death. It seemed illogical, but it only proved that he didn’t understand this woman well; he’d thought he had, but she was something other than what he’d thought. And men like this professor, found her charming, he thought with vexation. The wife whom he’d seen as exciting as a dishcloth was thought charming by others—charming enough that Samson Ellingwood would limit his prospects to be with her.
He couldn’t have her cuckolding him again, particularly here in closed confines, where everyone would notice. He would have to guard to ensure that she wasn’t succumbing to this American man’s charms. He needed to say something about it—make sure she understood that such behavior wouldn’t be tolerated, but it was an uncomfortable discussion—one that may open the door to more than he intended. A further bell indicated that Mrs Fullfer was ready to start again.
“I believe I am coming down with a headache,” Adele said. “I think I shall have to retreat to my cabin.”
“Of course, dear,” Mrs Callisfore said, patting her hand. “You must go lie down—rest until you feel better.”
Adele bid goodbye to Mrs Callisfore, and to the professor, who bowed to her, taking her hand in a slight touch. Lysander wondered if her gaze lingered a little longer on the man that was necessary.
“I will walk you back,” Lysander stated.
“It is alright, you stay. I know the way.”
“I will all the same.”
“As you please.”
As they walked out of the salon onto the exterior promenade, the brisk sea air was strong that evening, and it was pitch black away from the deck, as if they were on a ship in the middle of nothingness.
Lysander envied women’s ability to claim a headache anytime they wanted, and were excused. Men couldn’t claim a headache even if they were dying of typhoid. Because of this, he had to go back and sit through the torture of Mrs Fulfer’s recital until the bitter end.
Feeling the uncomfortable silence between himself and the woman walking next to him, his wife, he wished there was some conversation they could embark on, but the truth was that he had more to say to a stranger. Light banter seemed disingenuous considering the chasm between them—a chasm filled with a large wasp nest, for which any attempt at discourse would only serve as a swift kick, sending all their crimes and recriminations into the open.
Lysander wasn’t stupid enough not to realize that he wasn’t an entirely innocent party in this mess. He couldn’t entirely claim victimhood there, because his inadequacies may well have contributed to the strained affairs between himself and his wife—another topic he wasn’t relishing dragging into the light.
“I think there are some things we need to discuss,” he said as they reached her cabin.
Adele agreed wholeheartedly, biting her cheek on the inside as she tried to think of how to broach the subject, but couldn’t think of any clever ways. “What are you to do with me when we return?” she demanded.
He considered her for a moment, his eyes dark and unyielding, but he stepped over to open his cabin door, giving her room to proceed before him. The smell of him enveloped her, automatically recalling the excitement she used to feel when she caught his scent from his things abandoned in the Devon house—just like he’d done her.
His head shifted back slightly and he looked annoyed. He had no right to be annoyed, she felt, anger unfolding in her, which she quickly suppressed.
He wasn’t answering. “Are you being deliberately cruel by not telling me?”
“You would deserve it if I was,” he said, his voice low and coarse. She wondered if he was affected by drink. There were no visible signs, but it was the end of the evening.
“Are you?”
Turning from her, he placed a program he’d been holding on the dressing table. “No,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I don’t know. The true answer is: I don’t know what to do with you.”
It was the first honest answer he’d ever given her. It put her no closer to knowing what her future held, but it was something anyway.
“What do you think I should do with you?” he asked, looked back at her. “An untrue wife. An adulteress.”
“Oh please,” she said with anger. She’d never before been angry with him present, but she couldn’t hold it back now; it came flowing out of her. “You cannot claim that my lack of fidelity is what aggrieves you—you have been living with a woman for years. What is her name, Miss Hamilton, I believe?” She could see the muscles of his jaw working with displeasure and anger. He might not like hearing it, but it was true. “I spent years being loyal to you, preserving my chastity like a sacred gift belonging to you—it wasn’t something you appreciated.”
“Perhaps, my dear, it is your lack of discretion that offends. Or are you completely oblivious of the embarrassment that you have caused me, my family—not to mention your own.”
“My own family? Are you unaware that I have none left?”
“You still need to honor your family name, as you needed to honor my name. You’ve made me the laughing stock of London. The burden of you is never-ending.”
“If I am such a burden, I wonder why you felt the need to cross the world to retrieve me? You could have left me where I was.”
“Because we cannot just shake off our burdens—that is not our right.” He was speaking in sharp angry tones. She hadn’t meant for the conversation to go this way, but perhaps there was no other way for it to go. “You can’t just shake it off like a coat and leave it behind. It doesn’t work that way. You swore an oath and you will keep to it.”
“And I did, for years, but you placed me in a position I could not bear. I was
suffocating—dying.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” he said with distaste.
She went silent with anger, watching him. She couldn’t trust herself to speak, she was so angry with him for completely dismissing the suffering she’d gone through. “I want a divorce,” she said icily, feeling like anger was dripping off her. “You care nothing for my happiness.”
“No,” he said, simply and decisively.
Adele thought for a moment he was agreeing that he didn’t care for her happiness, but it sunk in that he said no to the divorce. Adele stared at him in disbelief, trying to think of some reason for why he would refuse her at this point—when they’d gone years without ever managing to even stay in the same room. “You have every reason in the world—no one would argue the grounds. I wouldn’t even challenge it—I’m even begging you.”
“I will not discuss this further, but while we are speaking frankly, there is an issue I need to address with you.” His sharp eyes were boring into her. “I will not have you touting your charms with men on this ship.”
Adele gasped at the blatant accusation, which was underserved. She recalled how he’d called her a whore at one point, and was now accusing her of receiving the attention of other men. Reaching back, she slapped him hard across the face.
Grabbing her wrist, he forced it around her back, which brought her body into full contact with his. His grip was painful on her wrist and he looked down on her forbiddingly as he held her in place. As she whimpered with the pain, he let her go and stepped away. There was complete silence in the room as she stared at him, trying to understand where they stood in relation to each other. “You bring out the very worst in me,” he said. “You always have. I swear, you bring me to depths I didn’t know I had, and never wanted to know.” Lysander turned his back on her. “You are overwrought and have given yourself over to dramatics. You should withdraw to your room.”
“Do not treat me like a child,” she warned.
“Then stop acting like one.”
“You’re despicable.”
“Then it is a description that can be attributed to both of us.”
“I found a man that cared about me, who loved me. In the short time I was with him, he was a better husband that you ever were.”
“But the point is that he wasn’t your husband, Lady Warburton. There is a significant point of distinction.”
Marching out of his room, Adele slammed the door, feeling herself shaking with anger and resentment. She was married to an absolutely impossible man—he always had been, so she wasn’t sure why she was surprised.
Chapter 11
Lysander didn’t speak with Adele after that incident when she’d come into his cabin, accusing him. In truth, she hadn’t spoken to him either. They carried on as they had been, dining together; him walking her to the salon and then back to her cabin at the end of the evening, but they didn’t speak beyond the necessary practicalities. Her distance from him was a little more pronounced, almost like she was a little unsure of him. He couldn’t entirely blame her; he’d behaved atrociously and he wasn’t proud of it. She just drove him to distraction and he reacted to it, which he shouldn’t. He had to reassert proper control of himself. This was not the person he wanted to be. Perhaps it was a good idea, decreasing the contact and increasing the distance between them.
Sitting at the table in the salon, he watched the mingling that evening. His wife was discussing something with an Australian widow, returning to England to live with her sister, his wife tall in comparison and he noted other people saw her as compelling and handsome—not the gawky girl with huge eyes he always saw in his mind’s eye when he thought of her. He realized that when he thought of her, he saw her as she had been and she clearly wasn’t that creature anymore.
Men found her attractive, and while he’d gotten used to the idea, it still annoyed him when men spoke to her, particularly the professor as he suspected Adele enjoyed his company. Another man that had uncovered the passion in the woman that was his wife, having taken her from girlhood to womanhood, and it had happened while he hadn’t been paying attention. But perhaps that was the point; he hadn’t been paying attention and he’d left her unguarded for other men to find.
The most uncomfortable aftermath of their row some nights back was the knowledge that her desertion of their marriage hadn’t been entirely about her being swayed by other men or her being driven by a defective character, but driven, to some degree, by her dissatisfaction with their marriage. It was an uncomfortable idea, because it brought the culpability swinging back in his direction.
He wasn’t cowardly in the sense that he refused to accept his own responsibility in matters. He knew he had been a terrible husband and on some level he accepted that his wife’s desertion was in some ways justified—morally, in some respects, if not legally.
As he watched, the American geologist approached her and she smiled. Frowning, Lysander realized that she never smiled when he approached her. Clearly, his wife hated him. He knew it was not an uncommon state in marriage; he knew few people whose marriages were actually successful. Marriage wasn’t about success; it was about stability, family and securing the future—consolidating position. He had grown to accept his father’s take on the institution over time—looking past his youthful naivety.
Taking a swig of his drink, he winced as the liquid burnt the back of his throat, numbing slightly as it went. He didn’t usually drink this make of whiskey, but for some reason, he desired the burn it always gave him. He still didn’t know what to do about his marriage. She’d asked for a divorce and he’d refused. His adamant refusal had actually been a reflection of his anger; he’d been spiteful when he’d refused her proposal. He wasn’t proud of his spiteful reaction, but on the other hand, he did believe everything he’d said: marriage was a duty one could not just cast aside; it wasn’t about happiness, it was about duty. But his marriage had also caused him a great degree of embarrassment and would continue to do so. His reputation had been truly damaged by his inconstant wife and accepting her back would be perceived as weak character by the men in his acquaintance.
As he watched, Adele accepted a drink from the waiter. It didn’t take long for someone to spot that she was alone and start engaging her in conversation. A few months back, he’d have expected her to be hiding along the edge of the room, where no-one noticed her—that had been his understanding of his wife. In his absence, his wife had become a delightful woman.
Adele took a seat by her husband, soothing out the creases in her second-best dress. It wasn’t really of sufficient quality for the surroundings, but she couldn’t wear the yellow dress all the time; it’d be threadbare before she reached London. She had little choice but to utilize some of the dresses she wore as a schoolmistress, unsuitable as they were.
Sitting next to her, Lysander spoke to the American banker—a man she knew he actually liked conversing with. The American banker, who was traveling the world with his wife, had many interesting topics of conversation, which Lysander had an appreciation for. Adele watched his face as they spoke, noticing the lines that were starting to encroach on his features. She watched as his eyes moved as he thought about the things he was being told. He was intelligent, she could see that now. She’d never actually spent enough time with him to know with any certainty. This was what he looked like when he was interested in something—not usually the look she received; his face would be much more tightly drawn when he looked at her and she could sometimes see suspicion in his eyes, as if he didn’t trust her.
“You must give it a turn,” Mrs Callisfore addressed her from further down the table. “It pleases us older persons to see a handsome couple dancing.”
“Dancing?” Adele repeated with a moment of panic. Not only had she been caught in a moment of absent contemplation, but also in a context with dancing involved. Her eyes shot to Lysander.
“The dancing is about to start.”
Adele turned back to Mrs Callisfore. “I’m not sure
I should…” she drifted off, again returning her gaze to Lysander who coolly regarded her. Adele had actually been hoping to return to her cabin early like she did most nights. She wasn’t sure, but she wondered if she saw accusation in his eyes, exactly like he used to on the rare occasion they were together, when he’d felt she was tedious and dull.
The accusation of their argument still hung in the air between them. Nothing had been resolved, but they both now knew the depth of their regard for one another.
“Come now,” Mrs Callisfore pushed. “I am sure your Lord Warburton would love to twirl you around on the dance floor, my dear. It would be such a handsome sight.”
Looking down, Adele felt Lysander’s accusation sting. As much as she wanted to escape his judgement, she couldn’t quite achieve it. And it was an unfair accusation, especially coming from him. Looking him squarely in the eyes, she held her head high. “If Lord Warburton would be so inclined, I would of course dance with him.”
He turned his head slightly at the challenge. She’d never directly challenged him in public like that before—almost like she was challenging his perception of her. “As you wish, my dear.”
The endearment felt goading. He only did it in public, to keep up appearances, but it seemed that they were having a display of wills tonight and Adele was wondering if this was a good idea. Adele remained quiet for a while, until the dancing started. Everyone knew of their indication to dance and were watching them expectantly when it started.
Lysander rose and approached her, looking exactly as arrogant and forbidding as he always did. Holding out his hand, he expected her to take it. Something in her warned against doing so, as if she needed to protect herself from whatever this would intimate. Guardedly, her eyes sought out his again. The accusation was still there, even as she placed her fingers in his warm hand.
An Absent Wife Page 8
